McKettrick's Heart (29 page)

She held him, and she stroked his back and his hair, until the trembling stopped. And inside her own heart, where it was safe to say the words, she spoke.

I love you, Keegan McKettrick.

M
OLLY STOOD ALONE
on the front steps of the church where, in just four more weeks, Rance and Emma were to be married. It would be a traditional wedding, with all the trimmings—white lace, rose petals strewn along the aisle, guests decked out in the bright, colorful garments of celebration. A triumphant march would boom from the pipe organ under the choir loft.

Today the joy seemed far off, even though the sun was shining.

Today Psyche Ryan would be mourned in this little building and in the hearts of the townspeople, all clad in black or dark, somber blue, and buried in the grassy garden of stone angels and headstones adjoining the churchyard.

Florence sat stiffly in one of the front pews, with Lucas fidgeting on her lap, staring at Psyche's gleaming coffin, and heedless of everyone around her. The casket, closed at Psyche's own request, was draped in a blanket of white peonies; Keegan had seen to that.

Keegan.

In the three days since Psyche's death—and Molly and Keegan's backyard wedding—Keegan had been cold, remote, strangely immobile behind an impenetrable force field of grief-driven activity. He groomed the horses. He pounded nails into fences. He tore things down, out in the barn, and put them back together again. At night he'd taken Molly to his bed, satisfied her body relentlessly, ferociously—and left her heart longing for his touch.

The soft strains of “Amazing Grace” flowed out through the open doors of the church to ride a soft, cut-grass-scented breeze.

Molly steeled herself to go back in.

She couldn't use being a stranger in town as an excuse to run away. She was Molly McKettrick. She was Lucas's mother, Keegan's wife. And Psyche had been…her friend.

Tears blurred Molly's vision. Made the line of cars and the hearse parked on both sides of the tree-shaded street a hazy mingling of colors and shapes.

A hand cupped her elbow.

“It's time,” Jesse told her quietly.
Keegan needs you,
his eyes said.

She nodded, allowed him to usher her back inside the stuffy, too-crowded church. Back to her seat beside Keegan, who sat so utterly still that he might have been one of the marble statues guarding the graves behind the church.

She longed to take his hand, or simply rest her palm on his shoulder, but she didn't. On his other side, Devon surveyed the proceedings solemnly, shielded somewhat by her youth and innocence. Devon had known Psyche only slightly, after all, and whatever sadness she felt was understandably directed toward Keegan.

The service began.

During the reading of the Twenty-third Psalm, Lucas freed himself from Florence's arms, scrambled down off her lap and toddled back to Molly, his little hands upraised to her, his lower lip quivering.

Molly felt such a rush of love for him, her baby, her boy, her miracle, that for a moment she could barely breathe. Then she reached for him, held him close.

Keegan, meanwhile, sat rigid, his eyes dry but redrimmed, his profile hard. Jesse, seated with Cheyenne and Rance and Emma in the pew behind Molly and Keegan's, did what Molly had not dared to do. He rested a hand briefly on Keegan's shoulder, squeezed.

Keegan flinched under this silent reassurance. Except at night, when he buried himself in Molly's body, he couldn't bear to be touched.

There was no formal eulogy, but the minister invited anyone who wished to speak to step forward.

Molly stood in the aisle, holding Lucas, waiting for Keegan to rise.

After some hesitation, he did.

His back was straight as he moved toward the altar, stepped behind the pulpit. A tense, supportive silence filled the little church.

Molly sat down, trembling. Devon slid close to Molly and rested her head against her shoulder. Shifting, Molly draped an arm around the girl and held her briefly to her side, trying to manage an increasingly impatient Lucas at the same time.

When the little boy finally let out a wail of frustration, Jesse hoisted him off Molly's lap and took him outside.

Keegan, standing up front, swallowed visibly. “A good friend told me recently,” he began, stopping in midsentence to clear his throat, “that people ought to live less from their heads and more from their hearts. Psyche did that all her life. She lived from her heart. She forgave people, and was always ready with a second chance.” His gaze, bleak and unreadable, rested on Molly's face. “She died the same way she'd lived—generously. She was in a lot of pain and she was scared, but she got past all that. She made sure her son would have a home and a family.” He paused again, groping for words. “Psyche was one of the bravest women I've ever known, and I'll never forget her.”

With that, Keegan stepped down, stopping to rest a hand briefly on the lid of Psyche's coffin as he passed it.

I'll never forget her.

The vow echoed, sacred and sorrowful, through Molly's heart.

She and Devon moved down so Keegan could sit on the aisle. Along with Jesse, Rance, Travis Reid, Wyatt and one of his brothers, he was a pallbearer. It would be his duty to help carry Psyche's casket out of the church when the service was over, through the dazzling summer sunlight, to the hearse.

Molly's throat constricted.

Psyche had had her revenge, albeit unwittingly. She'd given Molly an incomprehensible gift—Lucas—but she'd taken something, too. She'd taken a part of Keegan along on her journey into the mysteries of eternity, as surely as if that intangible, vital part of him had died with her.

Numbly Molly endured the rest of the service. She listened to Florence's brave, tearful tribute, but the woman might as well have been speaking another language for all the sense Molly made of it. Jesse returned, gave Lucas, now sleeping, to Cheyenne.

At last the dreaded moment of relief came. At a signal from the minister, the same one who had married Molly and Keegan, the pallbearers assembled, each taking the coffin by one of its shining brass handles.

It was over.

It was just beginning.

Psyche hadn't wanted anyone to come to the grave site, so when the doors of the hearse were closed, that was the final goodbye.

The minister's wife announced that refreshments would be served in the small community gathering place next to the church.

Molly endured that, too.

People ate cake and sipped coffee or punch, and exchanged memories of the younger Psyche, the one they'd known best.

Lucas was exhausted, caught up in the energy of something he couldn't possibly understand. He'd settled in well at the Triple M, but he had a way of moving from room to room, searching for Psyche. “Mama?” he would say in plaintive confusion. “Mama?”

Now he was scanning the crowd for the one person he would never find.

Molly approached Keegan tentatively. This was the daylight Keegan; there would be a different one later, when they were alone in their bedroom at the ranch, with Lucas sleeping in the room next to theirs, and Devon down the hall.

Molly anticipated the lovemaking on a visceral level that electrified her very cells. But she also dreaded it, dreaded giving herself up like that, all the while knowing she was a substitute for someone else—not the recent, frail Psyche, but the vibrant one Keegan obviously remembered.

“Lucas is tired,” she said quietly, holding her son, resting her chin on top of his head. Keegan's face was healing; his fat lip was almost back to normal, and the shiner had faded to a faint shadow. “I'm going to take him home.”

Keegan blinked, as though she were an acquaintance, briefly encountered somewhere, and promptly forgotten. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn he was trying to place her, remember her name.

“Home,” he said.

“To the ranch,” Molly clarified, then felt foolish. Where else could she go? Psyche's big house was effectively closed until the estate could be settled; Florence had her belongings packed, and her sister had come to take her to Seattle. Jesse and Rance had brought all Lucas's things, and Molly's, too, out to the Triple M in the backs of their trucks.

“I'll get the car,” Keegan said, surprising Molly. She didn't know what she'd expected of him exactly—but it hadn't been this ready acquiescence. “Where's Devon?”

“Outside, with Rianna and Maeve,” Molly answered. “Keegan, you don't have to—”

“There's nothing I can do here,” he said. He even smiled a little, ruffled Lucas's hair, but when he looked at Molly again, the distance was there in his eyes.

He left her, spoke briefly to Florence, then went out.

Molly had her own goodbyes to say. She approached Florence. “I'll send pictures,” she said. “And you can visit Lucas any time you want.”

Florence's eyes brimmed as she leaned forward to stroke the child's hair, then kiss the place where her palm had rested. “Thank you, Molly,” she said.

Molly's throat closed again.

Florence smiled gently. “It was a comfort to Psyche, knowing you'd look after Lucas and love him the way she did. Gave her something to hold on to.”

Still unable to speak, Molly merely nodded.

“You see that you don't forget to pass on those pictures,” Florence said. “I'll send a note to the Triple M when I'm settled in Seattle, so you'll know my address.” The older woman looked past Molly, to the open doorway of the community center. “You go on now, and see to that man of yours. It will be rough going for a while, but if you stick with it, I think things will turn out all right.”

“Y-you'll be all right?” Molly asked after several moments spent groping for her voice.

“I'll be fine,” Florence replied. “I will surely grieve for my girl, but I'll get along. Psyche saw that I'd have all I could ever need, God rest her soul. I've got my sister and plenty of good memories to see me through.”

“Thank you, Florence,” Molly said, in parting.

Florence nodded, and Molly turned to go.

Keegan stood beside the car, one hand resting on Devon's shoulder as he spoke to her. When he saw Molly approaching, Keegan left his daughter to take Lucas from her arms. Placed the little boy, now half-asleep, in the special car seat. Devon sat solicitously close to Lucas.

No one spoke on the drive out to the Triple M.

Once there, Molly changed Lucas's diaper, gave him a bottle and laid him down in the playpen in the kitchen. Keegan immediately went upstairs, came back wearing jeans, boots and a work shirt.

Molly left Lucas in Devon's care for a few minutes, and went up to get out of her black dress. She put on denim shorts, a ruffly white top and slip-on sandals, and by the time she got back to the kitchen, Keegan was gone.

Devon sat in a rocking chair, watching Lucas sleep.

Molly paused beside her chair, a little worried by the child's glum expression. Yes, Devon had just attended a funeral, but Molly suspected this was something different.

Keegan had alluded to a problem concerning Devon. Maybe they'd talked.

“Want some lunch, sweetheart?” Molly asked.

Devon shook her head. “My dad's pretty upset.”

“He lost a good friend,” Molly said very quietly. “That's hard.”

“He said we need to have a talk, him and me,” Devon replied, looking up at Molly with sad, luminous eyes. “I think he's going to say Mom wants me to go live in Paris. That I can't stay here with him.”

Molly was at a complete loss. She knew nothing of the situation, or of Keegan's relationship with his ex-wife, and it would be too easy to say or do the wrong thing. Still, she couldn't ignore Devon's obvious concern, either. “Is that what you want? To live here with your dad?”

“And you and Lucas,” Devon said.

It struck Molly then, the full weight of all she'd done to get her son back. If she and Keegan didn't find a way to make the marriage work, there would be other casualties. Lucas, certainly, but Devon, too. “We'd like that a lot,” she replied. There was so much more to say, so much more to promise, but it was too soon.

And Molly had made enough reckless promises.

Devon brightened a little. “Can I try on some of your shoes?” she asked.

Molly chuckled, relieved that the conversation had taken a turn into safer territory. “Yes,” she said. “But most of them are still in boxes.”

“That's okay,” Devon answered. “I'll unpack them for you.”

“Good idea,” Molly replied.

Devon got out of the rocking chair and dashed up the back stairs.

Molly was mixing tuna, mayonnaise, onions and pickles for sandwiches when Keegan came inside. Looked around for Devon.

“Upstairs,” Molly said. “Unpacking my shoes.”

One corner of Keegan's mouth tilted upward in a forlorn attempt at a smile. He raised his eyes to the ceiling at a clomping sound overhead in the master bedroom.

“I keep waiting for life to get easier,” he said.